Angelica was standing near a fountain, wondering where the water came from that spilled down several levels and lightly sprayed into the air, when a dashing knight approached. Fortunately he wasn’t wearing real chain mail, just tooled leather over a jerkin and hose.
“I do hope you don’t intend to use those on me,” he said, gesturing to the shears in her hand.
It was difficult to tell if she knew his voice, muted as it was by the fountain and other sounds, but he seemed familiar. So Angelica smiled and unraveled a hank of the golden thread. Holding it up, pretending to measure him, she tried to see through his mask. But it was shadowy and dark, and she couldn’t get a good look. “No, I do not believe your time has yet come, sir knight. You’ll live to joust for another day.”
He laughed, and she recognized him then. The young and eligible Viscount Harrington, with whom she’d danced at several parties and even once strolled out on a patio, arm in arm. Did he recognize her? Had he sought her out?
“Perhaps you might offer a boon to this lowly man at arms,” he suggested. “It would be my honor to wear your favor into battle next.”
Angelica smiled and snipped off a generous piece of her golden cord. “I vow this is nothing more than a maiden’s favor, not the work of Atropos this night,” she told him, wrapping it around his forearm and tying it lightly.
“It is you,” he said then, smiling beneath his leather mask. “I was nearly certain, Miss Woodmore. It was your hair and the way you move. But now it is confirmed. Along with your favor, might I also request the next dance?”
“Of course. It would be my pleasure,” she replied, replacing her shears and skein in the bag, carefully so that the tips pointed down into a corner of the small satchel. Then she took his arm and allowed him to guide her through the people toward the dance floor.
“It’s a waltz,” he commented as the musicians began the new song. “May I?” he asked again, turning to face her at the edge of the dance floor.
A thrill of the forbidden tripped through Angelica, and she gave a little curtsy. “Yes, my lord.”
Her first waltz.
Angelica’s heart beat a bit more rapidly as Harrington eased her into the unfamiliar position of the dance, nearly embracing her. She was hardly able to contain a nervous smile. They stepped into the rhythm of the music with a bit of hesitation and a slight scuff of her slipper as she learned the step.
They made their way around the room in the three-beat rhythm, making small circles with the triangular step. Angelica enjoyed the freedom of the dance—so different from the line dances and quadrilles where every movement was choreographed and a slight change could disrupt the flow.
But while she had always found Harrington to be very charming and quite handsome, she realized now that she’d come face-to-face with him—quite intimately, in fact—that his shoulders weren’t as broad as she might have thought. And while he moved with ease, an underlying grace and confidence was missing.
Conversation, she found, was much easier with a waltz than when dancing the traditional dances. Instead of constantly separating and then coming back together, she and her partner had the opportunity for uninterrupted repartee. Harrington suggested they ride in the park someday—an invitation which she accepted—and asked about her sisters. Then he said he’d heard about Corvindale taking them in as his wards.
“Yes, that’s true,” Angelica told him. “It’s only been since yesterday and I’m not certain how long we’ll be at Blackmont.”
“You didn’t mention anything about leaving when I came to call two days ago,” he commented, reminding her that, yes, indeed, he had been in her parlor on that day.
The day Dewhurst—Voss—had come and told her about Lord Brickbank.
Suddenly a bit of her pleasure waned.
Brickbank was dead, and, apparently, there was nothing she or anyone could have done to prevent it. The fact had poked at her incessantly, bothering her in a way she hadn’t been bothered since the first time she realized her gift—if one could call it that. This incident had disturbed her, perhaps because it had been so unwelcome. The dream had come upon her with no warning, unlike the other times when she had to concentrate and summon the vision or image to make her prophecy.
Angelica prayed she’d have no more odd dreams like that, for it was one thing when she called on her Sight to help a woman make a decision about her future…but this had been so different. So unexpected.
She hadn’t known Brickbank, but she’d come to know Voss enough in those brief moments that his loss had affected her more deeply than she’d anticipated. He was likely halfway to Romania by now, taking his friend with him back to be buried in his family plot. How long did it take to travel to Romania?
And back?
And why did it even matter to her?
Just as Harrington spun her in a less-than-smooth circle, Angelica saw the figure standing near the fountain she’d been examining only moments before. He seemed to be watching them, and a little frisson sizzled through her at the intensity of his stare.
The shadows embraced him, and the black mask he wore hid all but the lower third of his face. A wide-brimmed hat covered his head and a heavy dark cloak offered more concealment. But he was watching her.
Her heartbeat quickened, and as the dance ended and Harrington escorted her off the floor, Angelica glanced back quickly. He was still looking after her, and as their eyes connected across the space, he gave a bow of acknowledgment. Then, a person moved in the space between them, obstructing the view, and then another, and when Angelica looked again, he was gone.
It took her a moment for her heart to settle to normal, and her breathing to steady. Was it possible Voss was here? That he hadn’t left for Romania? It had to be him, watching her so boldly.
Her belly tingled at the thought and she had to restrain herself from looking back again as her dance partner—whose name she had nearly forgotten—drew her through the clusters of people: a highwayman, a king, an archer, a Hamlet and Ophelia, a Diana and a butterfly.
“Miss Woodmore?”
She looked up at Harrington and realized he’d been trying to gain her attention for some time. “I’m terribly parched,” she said with a smile, utilizing the excuse Maia had taught her to free oneself—either permanently or temporarily—from a companion.
“May I fetch you something to drink?” he asked, leaning close. He smelled pleasant—a woodsy scent. “So you don’t have to wait in line?”
“Yes, indeed. I understand there is some effervescent drink with lemon in it. It sounds lovely.” Because the mask obscured her face, she couldn’t bat her eyelashes, but she did look up at him with a smile.
As Harrington rushed off, Angelica realized that, ironically, she’d used a similar excuse to extricate herself from a different dance partner so that she could speak with Harrington himself some time ago. Maia, who’d been very clever at managing her many beaux before settling on Alexander Bradington, would be proud of her sister’s expertise.
“Do you care to dance?” came a low voice behind her.
Angelica barely managed to keep from clapping a startled hand to her bosom and instead merely straightened. How had he gotten over here so quickly? “Of course,” she replied, turning. Her heart was pounding, and beneath her gloves, her palms had gone damp.
He was there, perhaps not as tall as she’d remembered, but darker and more forbidding thanks to his unrelieved black garb and shadowing hat. The full cloak covered him from shoulder nearly to the floor, and the mask obscured him from temple to upper lip. That left only a bit of jaw and cheek uncovered, but they too were shadowed by a high, white Elizabethan neck ruff.